Through the Blissful Meadows Go
by Ithilwen C. Malfoy
Summary: COMPLETE. SSHP In the aftermath of the final battle Harry and Snape find common ground. Featuring: Twisted!Harry, Brooding!Snape, and Shakesperotica. Darkfic, slash
1. Aftermath

Author: Ithilwen C. Malfoy

Rating: R (PG-13 for now, higher rating in later chapters)

Pairing: SS/HP

Spoilers: OotP

Warnings: Oddness, darkness, graphic slash, language.

Disclaimer: All characters and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling and various publishers including, but not exclusive to, Bloomsbury Publishing and Warner Bros. Plot, however, is mine. No financial gain is being made from this story.

Archive: Name your terms, and I shall have my legal people quibble over details. Actually, I'll probably just say yes, but I really would prefer it if you ask. 

Notes: This is part I of a three-part story. Parts II and III will be coming v.soon. And I haven't abandoned 'Move Beside Me'… it's just taking a little longer to write one particular bastard of a chapter than previously expected. 

~~~

Aftermath

Twilight had fallen. Vague shapes moved slowly, some stooped, some supporting or supported by others. This was the aftermath. There were no conversations, only odd murmured words, as if to speak above a whisper would shatter the silence so irrevocably that it would never return – that it would break this tenuous calm... this precarious grasp on sanity.

Severus Snape cast his hooded gaze over the scene before him. In the half-light it was impossible to make out the dark shapes which lay, seemingly scattered, across the wide clearing. But when you concentrated, stared at one particular spot for long enough, you realised that these were people… crumpled, discarded toys. Some piled, some alone, all dead. Blood on the grass, pale vomit around the lips of the dying. They were silent now, and a handful of Mediwizards walked through the bodies, their shoulders slumped, their voices flat and quiet as they murmured a short spell, and the ragged, shallow breaths of those beyond help ceased. 

Slipping his hand into his pocket, Severus let his fingers run across the smooth surface of a small leather-bound book. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He had seen all this before, but never quite like this… The Death Eaters had not been idly named. Severus was no stranger to corpses, to blood, to the smell that pervaded every sense and filled every pore. But never had he seen death on such a scale, so many lives, so many empty shells. 

His fingers closed around the fine-grained wood of his wand. This was magic. This field full of bodies, no more than children. Children he had taught across a Potions classroom for seven years, who he had saved from Minerva's detentions, whose parents' Christmas drinks parties he had reluctantly attended. Whole families lay here, being counted, identified, recorded by scattered Ministry workers, the main body of officials not having arrived yet. 

So the end had come. No more war, no more death, no more pain… No more lies. Severus was in no way naïve enough to believe that this was salvation. War, death, pain – it never ended. And yet we fight on. 

He barely flinched as the wand snapped and splinters drove into his palm. More blood. Like the blood on his face – some from the gash on his left temple, and some that he knew wasn't his. Perhaps it was Lucius', or Nicholae's… Nothing but filthy  robes to wipe it off with… So he didn't.

Raising his head, Severus opened his eyes. Not that it did him much good. Darkness was falling swiftly. Soon he would have to leave – should have left hours ago. Yet it wasn't just him standing in the gloom.  

A lonely, stooped figure stood unnoticed amongst the debris. Severus mused that there was some cruel irony to it – that The Boy Who Refused To Die should be unmissed, and should manage to be inconspicuous even though he stood, head bowed, in the centre of the darkened clearing. The centre of the world's attention for 17 years, and now forgotten. That's gratitude. 

Perhaps it was disappointment that it had not been their boy hero who had cast the final curse… but Severus was sure that no one had seen the struggle; the boy, under a stronger Cruciatus than Severus had seen many endure; Granger throwing one of her speciality curses, drawing attention away from the boy; the force of the Avada Kedavra knocking Voldemort away, his soul defeated, finally lifeless, and the Granger girl falling to the ground; Severus dragging the screaming boy away, letting the boy fight against him, but clasping the deceptively thin, strong arms to his own, preventing the boy from returning to the girl's crumpled form. He had let the boy fall to the ground then, defeated and weeping, and felt the world twist horribly, the mark on his arm burning away to nothing but a scar, and staggered a little way before dropping to the ground himself and letting the battle come to an end around him.

The boy was silent now, his eyes red, but his tears stopped, and was staring unseeingly at his hands, which were shaking and clasped before him. Without stopping to consider his motivation, Severus stepped forward, and walked silently towards him.

Severus stood a little behind him, and the boy neither raised his head nor spoke, but Severus knew that he was aware of his presence. Neither of them looked at the other. They stood side by side in heavy silence. 

Severus saw the boy's gaze come to rest on the scene before them. A man – Severus knew him as a Ministry employee, but couldn't put a name to his face – holding his arm to his chest and limping, was stepping through the debris, checking faces, looking for someone, but praying that he didn't find them there. But he did, and now knelt, cradling his friend's broken head in his arms. It angered Severus to see a figure holding a crucifix touch the grieving man on the shoulder. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

"It's a bit late for that now," Harry said in a dead, flat voice which chilled Severus to the bone. "Praying for your soul when it's already gone. I pray for mine. And his." – Severus realised to his surprise that Harry meant Voldemort – "And yours. Dumbledore told me that it's necessary to fight for some things, that to kill for those things is forgivable. But just in case they're wrong, and we're all damned…" He gave a harsh, mirthless laugh, which Severus shudderingly recognised as something like his own. 

Then the laughter faded and the boy said, in a small voice, "Is it over?"

Severus paused for a moment then silently placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. He felt them shake suddenly, and the boy lifted his hands to his face, and it seemed that the world had ceased to spin and understanding flowed between them for one brief moment. And then Severus stepped away and it was gone, and Harry was left alone, weeping in the darkness, and Severus tried to ignore the longing to stand beside him and weep for their souls together.   


	2. Asphodel

Asphodel

Severus sat alone in his office, ignoring the biting chill in the air, and silently refusing to light the fire. His book – tiny, black and leather-bound – lay open on the arm of his chair, where he had slammed it in his frustration at not being able to concentrate. His earlier argument with Albus had done little to ease his mood. 

-  _"He wanders through the corridors like a ghost, Albus. He's in shock and he's grieving. For God's sake, let him go."_

_"It has only been three days, Severus. I believe it is in all our interests to keep Harry at Hogwarts for the time being. The Ministry may wish yet to question him further, and I myself thought I might talk to Harry about his possible future career… Perhaps you should be present at our meeting?"_

_Severus slammed his hand down on the desk, making that infernal tea set of Albus' rattle. "You will leave him alone, Albus," he growled. "You have spent seventeen years manipulating me into doing your bidding and you will not subject him to that. You will not turn him into me." _

_Albus had said nothing, simply regarded him with an infuriatingly noble look on his face, sipping his tea._ – 

He had stormed back to his rooms, cloak swirling about him, and taken out the book. He sank into a chair by the fireplace, not that there was ever a fire lit there, and began to read. The little black book which had been with him… forever. 

That was one thing which could be said for Demitrius and Matriana Snape; for all their faults, they had ensured that Severus and his siblings received a full and extensive alternative education. This had included a basic understanding of classical mythology which was, as all Slytherin children were taught, founded in magic, and recorded by wizards. Virgil himself was a Warlock of great renown. Of Slytherin ancestry, of course.

And oh, Gods, Elysia… He let his head fall into his hands and closed his eyes. This book was from her, it was _hers, her namesake. He refused to let himself be drawn down that path again… _

He had slammed the book down on the arm of the chair and stood up, angry that he had lost control. _Damn you, Albus. This is what you have turned me into_. 

Such a nice little old man, so wise. So kind of him to take in that Snape boy, the Death Eater. Imagine it, a Death Eater teaching the children. Ah, but if Albus trusts him… Albus must trust him, or he would have turned him in. What a good man, a saint. 

And that's the problem, isn't it, Albus? When the saint takes off his glasses, and the twinkle dies, what is left but a man to whom I owe my life. _I took the liberty, Severus, I'm sure you don't mind... Of course, if you would rather… If you'd prefer not to… You can refuse…_

But I can never refuse you, Albus. None of us can. It's such a clever trick, fooling people into underestimating you. But I have seen through it, Albus, through your welcoming smile and your afternoon tea. And it makes me despise myself all the more for the acquiescence. Any debt I owe the boy's parents will be paid in full by this one action – keeping their son away from you, Albus. 

Severus saw movement from the corner of his eye and looked up to see that the swirling mists in the modified foe-glass above his door were beginning to clear and take form – someone was approaching his rooms.

Not Albus, he always summoned Severus – a case of the mountain always going to Mohammed and wishing that just once he could tell Mohammed _exactly_ where he could bloody well go. Few others endured Severus' company, and fewer still actively sought it. Then who –

Ah. Harry Potter stood at Severus' door, looking cold, scared and tear-stained. 

Severus clenched his fists. This was Albus' doing. The boy should not be here, should not be so alone. Should not remind Severus so much of himself.

He strode over and opened the door. Harry raised his head and met Severus' gaze with bloodshot emerald eyes – so flat, so empty… So like his mother's when they found her… Stop it, Severus. 

Without a word he stepped aside and let Harry in. He had been outside in the grounds, Severus noticed – there were flecks of snow melting on his cheeks and in his hair. Natural pathetic fallacy, Severus thought, that it should snow, as it had for the past three days, in July. The sky was crying for her dead children.  

And now Harry stood before him, shivering. Severus sighed inwardly and moved forward. Gently, as though trying not to startle the boy, he lifted Harry's sodden cloak from his shoulders and hung it on a stand beside the door. Taking his own travelling cloak from the peg beside it, he draped it round Harry's shoulders and led him towards the fireplace. A quick 'Incendio' lit a fire in the grate. 

How long has it been since you let yourself bring warmth to these rooms?

He silently gestured for Harry to sit in the soft chair by the fire, the one on whose arm his book rested. He did, and Severus left him there, retreating without a word to his work area. 

Lavender, castor oil, a little asphodel… Stir clockwise, slowly, concentrate, stir clockwise, slowly, think, stir clockwise, don't think, stir, slowly, worse, stir, concentrate…

The boy sat, absolutely still. He had not moved to pull Severus' cloak around his shoulders where it had slipped off. Transfixed by the fire, glowing like a phoenix's feathers, sitting in an office, waiting to be condemned, watching its feathers glow, stopping the tears when it rests its head against your shoulder and sings to you, singing for your absolution. 

But the fire might consume you if you cannot look away. It will draw you in, reduce you to ashes, and die, leave you lifeless.

Opening a cupboard, Severus produced two glasses and a decanter of fire-coloured, burning liquid. He poured a little into each glass and set the decanter on his desk. He seated himself in the other chair by the fire and handed Harry a glass. The boy gazed at it blankly for a moment, before lifting it to his lips, tipping his head back, and draining it. He grimaced and closed his eyes for a second. 

"That is single malt," Severus said pointedly. "It is meant to be savoured."

Harry said nothing for a moment. "Give me some more and I'll savour it," he said hoarsely. 

"_Accio decanter_." Severus caught the crystal bottle and re-filled the offered glass. Placing the decanter on the floor beside him, he sipped from his own glass and felt the re-assuring warmth slip down his throat. 

Harry's eyes were once again on the fire. It threw flickering shadows over the rest of the room, and lent his face a haunted look, his eyes sunken and clouding with tears. With a crash, the glass slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, where it smashed on the floor, the fire casting a thousand twinkling lights about the room as it caught the broken crystal.     

Harry let out a choked gasp and gazed down at the amber liquid pooled on the stone. He fell to his knees and, with trembling hands, began to pick up the pieces of crystal. 

"Sorry, I- I…" He began miserably. He drew in his breath at the pain in his hand as the crystal cut into his fingers, and dropped the shards back onto the floor, holding his hand and staring at the blood welling up from the cut. Suddenly, a ragged sob tore itself from his throat and he crumpled to the floor, clasping his hand to his chest. 

Severus had moved forward to inspect the boy's hand, when a there was a loud crack behind him, and he had to duck to avoid the tiny pieces of crystal flying through the air like sparkling shrapnel as his own glass exploded. Moments later, as Harry's sobs grew louder, the decanter was violently reduced to splinters and rained down upon them, causing Severus to throw the travelling cloak over them both to prevent the shards landing on them, tearing at their skin. With a succession of loud cracks, empty bottles and vials along the shelves began to burst outwards into the room. The foe-glass and crystal paper-weight on Severus' desk began to crack and Severus turned to Harry, grasping him by the shoulders and shouting to make himself heard above the noise of exploding glassware. 

"Stop this, Potter! Stop it!"

The boy's sobs continued, and Severus did the only thing he could think of. He pulled Harry towards him and held him, his arms across the boy's chest, his hands holding Harry's wrists so that he could not fight, and refused to let go, even when Harry tore at him with his nails. When the sounds of breaking glass finally began to diminish, as did the tears, Harry fell back against Severus, exhausted and trembling. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Harry croaked. Severus released his hands and Harry sagged forward, lowering his head onto his knees, drawing them up to his chest. 

Severus moved away silently and withdrew to the other side of the room. Taking out his wand he muttered a quiet '_Evanesco', followed by '_Reparo_'. Spilled liquids disappeared, and decanters and vials returned to their former shapes and positions. Unnerved, Severus continued the preparation of the potion, leaving Harry huddled and trembling on the floor. _

A little while later, silently chopping and weighing, stirring and sprinkling, Severus was absorbed in his work, oblivious to any other presence in the room, and when Harry approached him apprehensively, he utterly failed to notice him. 

"Dreamless sleep," Harry murmured, gazing into the cauldron. "It smells like loneliness."

Severus said nothing for a moment and continued stirring. "The flask," he said, indicating a small bottle which stood on the workbench behind Harry.

Harry picked it up and handed it to Severus, who took it with his right hand, which was inexpertly wound in a bandage. Harry saw his wince, which he tried to subdue as he gripped the bottle, but made no comment. Severus ladled some of the potion into the flask and used his wand to stopper it and send it to rest on a shelf alongside a variety of similar containers. 

"They think I drink it," Harry said quietly, "every night… I prefer the dreams."

Severus extinguished the flames beneath the cauldron and looked at Harry as though seeing him clearly for the first time. He drew his wand and cast a warming spell over him, and Harry shuddered slightly as the warmth slipped over him, making him realise quite how cold he had been.

"Sit by the fire." Severus said, his voice harsh in the silence which had settled.

Harry made no sign of acknowledgement except that he drew nearer to the fire and sank down into the chair he had previously occupied. He reached down and picked up Severus' cloak from where it lay on the floor, and pulled it around himself. Severus took his seat once more and directed his gaze to the fire, watching the flames dance their sinister, beckoning dance. The silence was broken only by the crackle of the fire as it consumed its supply of wood. 

The flames seemed to murmur, to sing gently, words he knew, words he never wanted to hear another speak…

"_His demum exactis, perfecto munere diuae, deuenere locos laetos et amoena uirecta fortunatorum nemorum sedesque beatas. largior hic campos aether et lumine uestit purpureo_,"

He turned, and found Harry, the book open before him, murmuring to himself as he read. 

"_solemque_ suum, sua sidera norunt_ –"_

Starting forward, Severus snatched the book away and slammed it shut, holding it close to him without realising it. Harry looked at him, alarmed. 

"Don't…" Severus rasped hoarsely, "Do not read this."

"Sorry." Harry whispered, eyes averted and face lowered. Severus mentally scolded himself as he watched Harry withdraw into the folds of his cloak, huddled in the armchair. "I –"

"You –" Severus paused and waited for Harry to continue his sentence. 

Harry lifted his eyes warily to Severus' and spoke so quietly that Severus barely heard him, "I saw you reading it before… Before we went out. I was curious …"

Severus let his fingers wander of their own accord over the well-worn leather and was silent for a moment. He then opened the cover and leaned forward, placing the book on the arm of Harry's chair. Without picking it up, Harry read the inscription.

"Your wife…?" Harry asked tentatively, unsure whether the notion of him asking Severus such a personal question, or the possibility of Severus being married was the stranger. 

"My sister," Severus corrected, leaving the confirmation of his unmarried status unspoken.

Harry was silent for a moment. "She's dead," he said, finally.

Severus was momentarily taken aback by Harry's abrupt articulation, and the certainty with which Harry had known that she was… dead. "It belonged to her."

The silence returned, as it so frequently had, until it was broken again by Harry, his voice hoarse, "How many? In the… How many?"

Severus raised his eyes to look at the dark-haired man-child, whose head was bowed and shoulders hunched. "Too many."

"But not us. Not me," Harry said quietly, and Severus heard the tone, an echo of his own so many years before. "I don't take the Dreamless Sleep… I want my dreams of death, they're the best I've ever had… I'm not scared of dying, I'm scared of how much I want it." 

The silence this time was deafening, and Harry looked up at Severus, suddenly horrified by his own confession. For one long moment, Severus tried to ignore the desire to retreat into his workroom and pray that this wounded creature would go away and leave him in peace and not remind him so much of himself. That moment was all Harry needed to get tremblingly to his feet and stumble to the door. 

He escaped into the corridor, and Severus heard him begin to run. It idly registered that Harry had left still wearing his cloak. He realised that he had drawn blood, this time from his left palm, where the nails of his clenched fist were digging into the skin. He let his head fall into his hands and prayed that he could for once forget just how much he wanted it, too. 

~~~

Notes: 

Latin extract from Virgil's Aeneid. These extracts are from Book 6, and are from lines 637-641. Translation:

_'These holy rites perform'd, they took their way  
Where long extended plains of pleasure lay:  
The verdant fields with those of heav'n may vie,  
With ether vested, and a purple sky;'_

and:

_'Stars of their own, and their own suns, they know;'_

Harry's line: "I want my dreams of death, they're the best I've ever had…" is a misquotation from the song 'Mad World' by Tears for Fears. The line is actually: 'The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.'_  
  
  
_


	3. Absolution

This chapter's warnings: Incest (not graphic), a leetle bit of blood-play, butchery of Shakespeare (many, many apologies to the Bard)

Epilogue coming soon.

Author's Note: Big shout out to my lovely reviewers. Thank you so much for your feedback, it really makes my day to know that you've enjoyed my story.

An especially big thank you to Ms. Padfoot: You've been my most faithful reviewer, and I'd like to thank you for all the time you've taken to read and review my stories. Yours are equally wonderful. Feel free to carry on reading and, of course, reviewing ;-)

Absolution

Pausing to swipe a stray lock of hair from his face, Severus flinched as he recognised the familiar sensation of blood on his skin. He realised detachedly that the cut on his palm was still bleeding. He should bandage it again and let the wound heal.

The fumes now rising from the potion were noxious, and were beginning to take effect. His vision dimly fogged, Severus realised as though for the first time, why it was so important not to consume alcohol whilst working with Asphodel. He should have thought about ventilation.

This was the calm in the aftermath of the storm – the boy's abrupt departure having proved to be the catalyst… Some small part of Severus had been exposed by the boy's hollow grief, and with the few brief, violent tears which had fallen – for himself, for _him_, for the both of them – something of a heady, precarious plain had been reached. The vacuum had been filled by a desperate, manic high, and Severus kept his tenuous grip on sanity only by forcing down rational thought and bleeding out the emptiness. 

He could hear her cruel words, mocking words, gently lilting with the pretence of the jest: _Always afraid of the kill, little brother? _And he had loved her. Gods, he loved her. Worshipped her, adored her. As she read him a story about loyalty and sacrifice and glorious death for the cause, and as she kissed him and showed him things he was too naïve to understand. The gasp she always gave as his fingers slid into her, or as his tongue flicked out to taste, as though she were the virgin and he the seducer. 

Her death had served only as proof of the futility of his existence. So she had finally succeeded in destroying him, crushing him, and he had fled to Hogwarts, to the open arms and twinkling eyes of Albus Dumbledore, and the life of Harry Potter.

And Severus took some comfort – pleasure? – from the fact that the boy knew exactly what it had felt like, to see her interred. Yet he doubted that Potter had cried those lover's tears for his beloved Godfather… 

And, Severus now noted with grim amusement, his thoughts had come, as the saying goes, full circle, ending as they began – with Harry.

The name did him an injustice. It was clumsy, awkward, childish. It described the 11-year-old who had rejected the friendship of a Malfoy, and in so doing set himself immediately a cut above Severus. 'James', if it was possible, was worse. It belonged to an arrogant child, one who had broken or disregarded the rules with an alarming regularity, and defended his father's name, under the mistaken impression that it deserved the defence. It was three years since that he had been brought swiftly and cruelly down to earth by that foolish stolen glance into a Pensieve. 

This new Potter, the one which had sat in Severus' comfiest chair and sobbed in front of the fire, had no name. Like a blank slate, a clean blackboard, a vacuum to be filled, he was empty, new, desolate. 

What's in a name? A rose by any other name would taste as sweet…

The bleeding hand forgotten, Severus slipped into the chair, which smelt of Harry, and closed his eyes, inebriated and wired to the point of exhaustion. 

His dreams were broken and fevered, tortured for what seemed an hour, maybe two. Then cool hands stroked away the hair from his face and wiped away the blood. They bound his hand and laid it on the arm of the chair. And then, after a pause during which Severus wondered whether the cherub had departed, soft lips pressed a rough kiss to the corner of his mouth. A shuddering sigh, and warm breath on Severus' cheek, and the angel was gone.

When he awoke some hours later, Severus first realised that the fumes had now cleared and he was no longer in danger of being gassed to Kingdom Come. Secondly, as he raised his hand to run it over his unshaven, weary face, he realised that someone had indeed bandaged the wound on his palm. His eyes snapped open and he found himself, rather disconcertingly, to be seated opposite Harry Potter, who, it seemed, had been watching him for some time. 

Gone were the surreptitious, almost coy glances of countless lessons, whereby Severus would look up to find himself observed and the emerald eyes would widen in surprise and flicker shyly downwards. The boy now held his gaze, although not in defiance or wilfulness. A simple, quiet gaze which reminded Severus slightly of Remus Lupin.  

For a moment they sat in silence, until the boy spoke, quietly: "I brought your cloak back." He indicated the third chair, over which Severus' travelling cloak lay. 

Severus nodded. Standing slowly, he made his way towards the cauldron, determined not to let his unsteady feet stumble. The flames had been extinguished, no doubt by Harry, and the potion itself lay congealing and very much condensed in the bottom of the cauldron. So much the better; he had unwittingly allowed it to become more concentrated than initially intended. 

As he muttered and brought the flames to life once more, he felt Harry stand and move closer, watching him. For a moment he watched the potion heat, the bubbles beginning to rise, then Harry spoke, curiosity obviously having gotten the better of him: "Wandless magic?"

Severus nodded, eyes still on the swirling mixture before him, "A wizard controls his magic, a wand merely helps him direct it."

"I know," Harry replied. "You tried to teach me, remember?"

Oh, yes. Twelve weeks spent in a classroom teaching the boy to focus, to exert some self-control. Severus realised that he should have known after the Occlumency fiasco that it would be pointless. But Albus had insisted. "And you appear to have learned something from it," Severus said.

"Yes," said Harry, blankly. 

For a moment more there was no sound other than the bubble and hiss of the broiling liquid. It was beginning to deepen in colour; no longer the grey-lilac of before, now a deepening, blackening purple. A sudden fragrance began to rise in pale clouds… Myrrh and decay – 

"Death," whispered Harry. Eyes previously fixed on the cauldron flickered to look at Severus. "What…?"

"Dreamless Sleep, with a few additions," Severus supplied. 

Harry's eyes came to rest on Severus' bandaged hand and he understood. "Will it kill you?"

"If I drink it."

"If _I_ drank it…?"

Severus nodded, "Eventually."

"… _Will_ you drink it?"

Severus remained silent and took up the knife from the bench beside him, slipping the tip under the bandage. Slicing away the material, he let it drop to the wooden bench-top and held his hand up to the flickering light of the fire. Another cut would be needed, another wound inflicted. The blade glinted, reflecting the firelight and catching Harry's reflection as he watched, morbidly fascinated. 

"The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures." Severus murmured, "'Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil."

He pressed the blade to his palm and watched as blood welled in the new cut, cross-ways to the other. Holding his arm over the cauldron, he squeezed and waited until enough blood had dripped in rivulets through his clenched fingers. With a hiss, the potion turned suddenly black, darker than any midnight, and poured forth a great cloud of pale smoke. Caught by the fumes, Severus reeled momentarily, and stumbled backwards into Harry's arms. 

For a moment there was stillness as he regained his balance, then Severus turned and met a gaze only slightly lower than his own. Emerald eyes, darkened – by the fumes or by desire Severus couldn't say – and empty. Loneliness screamed forth and deeper there burned something violent and hungry. It was a moment before Severus recollected himself and moved backwards, trapped between the bench and this burning, aching man-child. 

It took a further moment for him to find his voice and when he did it was hoarse and dark, "_Go, Har- _Potter." The boy didn't move, and Severus shouted: "Go!"

"Why?" Harry asked breathlessly, confused.

"GO!" Severus turned away so that he wouldn't have to look.

"Professor…" Harry moved to place a hand on Severus' arm, but the older man tore away.

"Do not touch me!"

"What've I done?" Harry asked, bewildered, angry, "I don't –"

Severus turned sharply and Harry almost stumbled backwards at the darkness of his eyes. "You over-stepped the mark, Potter! Kissing a sleeping teacher is hardly appropriate behaviour! Or am I mistaken, and it was all a dream?" Severus sneered.

At this Harry did stumble, falling backwards a little, his eyes wide. "You… I thought –"

"It is quite clear that you didn't _think," Snape snapped. Harry didn't reply, only gazed at Severus with faint, glistening tears in his eyes. Then, slowly, he raised one hand and made as if to touch the older man's face, and for one moment his fingertips grazed the unshaven cheek. But Severus was too quick, and caught Harry's hand in his own vice-like grip. _

With a hissed intake of breath, Severus realised that he had used the wrong hand, and that Harry's nails now dug into the open wound on his palm. For a moment he remained still, then twisted his hand away sharply. Gazing down at the blood under his nails, Harry seemed distraught and when Severus spoke his voice was barely a whisper: "Please, go. I will not take you."

For one glorious and terrible moment Severus thought that the boy would do as he was told and leave, but he then realised how foolish it was to trust to Harry doing anything he was told to. 

Slowly, tremblingly, Harry took Severus' injured, bleeding hand in his. He turned it so that the palm lay facing upwards and Severus held his breath, trying not to pull away. Raising Severus' hand to his lips, his breath falling warm against the abused flesh, Harry pressed a soft kiss to the stained fingertips. Willing himself not to make a sound, Severus watched, his eyes darkening, as Harry carefully, reverently kissed each finger. When Harry's tongue flicked gently out to taste the skin, it was all Severus could do to hold in a strangled sound, something between a hiss and a moan. Harry's kisses continued, soft and gentle along each finger, along the first, semi-healed line on his palm. Then, with a small, whimpering noise at the back of his throat, his eyes falling shut, his tongue dipped into the wound which still bled, eliciting a groan from the older man. Harry lapped gently at the blood, cleaning, licking, tasting, drinking. Severus tried to resist but let his head fall back, listening to the small sounds of pleasure which Harry was making. 

When the blood no longer flowed, and Severus' hand was clean, Harry raised his head slightly, gazing at the older man with hooded eyes. Severus opened his own eyes, not having realised he had let them fall closed, and felt a shudder run through him as Harry's breath fell cool on his wet, heated skin. 

In a low, murmuring voice, Harry began to speak, his eyes on Severus', his lips red and moist, "If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentler sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough work with a tender kiss…"

Severus tried to pull his hand away, to close his eyes, to move, but he found he didn't want to. The words of protest died in his throat as Harry began to speak once more: "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?"

Don't play along, Severus, don't give in… But, with a groan, Severus complied: "Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer."

"Then move not while my prayer's effect I take." With Severus' hand still clasped in his, Harry moved forward, so close that his lips barely brushed Severus' and pressed a gentle kiss to Severus' mouth. "Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purged."

Unable, unwilling to move, Severus could only reply, his lips moving against Harry's, against the sweetness of Harry's breath, "Then have my lips the sin that they have took."

"Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again."

For an eternity they neither breathed nor moved, then Harry collapsed forward and pressed a fierce but chaste kiss to Severus' lips and Severus hated himself for aching for a further touch. His eyes snapped open a moment later as he felt those lips pressed to his throat, the warm wetness of a tongue sliding down his skin, hands pushing aside his high collar to lick at the pulsing vein. He groaned and felt Harry chuckle darkly against his throat. 

He knew, as Harry slid to his knees, that it was too late to protest. And as Harry pushed away the black folds of Severus' robes and began to fumble with the buttons on his trousers, he found he really didn't want to. Harry impatiently pushed aside the material, and trailed one finger against the hardness within the last barrier of cloth. Severus shuddered and as Harry freed him from the confines of his underwear, the look of reverence on his face almost made Severus come far earlier than he wanted to. And then he was enveloped in warmth and wetness and God, but it had been so long, and he needed more. With one hand twined in Harry's hair and one braced against the bench behind him, he moaned something – later, he wouldn't be able to remember what – and the world exploded. 

When Harry drew himself back up Severus' body he was trembling and kissed the older man desperately, teeth and tongues clashing. And it was when Severus tasted himself on Harry's tongue that he realised the magnitude of what he had done. This desperate, luscious man-child, hard against his hip, hands fumbling for the buttons of his shirt… 

Severus tore himself away and used his hand in Harry's hair to stop him from moving. 

"What are you…?" Harry began, reaching for Severus, but the older man pushed him away.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them they would be cold, unfeeling, scornful… They would hold no sign that Severus was mere seconds, a single _kiss_, away from taking Harry to his bed and making him _scream,_ making him cry out, calling Severus' name as he came... _Always afraid of the kill, little brother?_

Not this time. Kill this now, and let the boy live, or have it consume them both. 

"This was a mistake." Severus said, trying to infuse his voice with as much of his usual ice as possible, "I'm sorry to have disappointed you, Mr Potter. Please, go."

"But –"

"Go!" Severus tried not to sound as though he was begging, and clenched his trembling fingers.

Harry didn't move. Then, slowly and deliberately, he leaned forward and kissed Severus, fierce and desperate, flicking his tongue over the older man's lips. But when Severus remained unresponsive – and Gods, it was killing him – Harry drew back. A swift turn, the slam of a door, and he was gone.

Severus let out the ragged breath he had been holding. He reached for the edge of the bench and missed, instead slipping to the floor, the forgotten Dreamless Sleep potion bubbling away to itself beside him. 

You see, Albus… you see what you've reduced me to. Our unfulfilled saviour, The Boy With The Midas Touch… Have I tarnished him, deflowered him? Gods, Albus, I'm only human. I'm only fucking human. 

~~~~~

Notes: 

'The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures. 'Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.' – Macbeth act 2, sc. 2, l. 53

'If I profane…Give me my sin again' – slightly mangled extract from Romeo and Juliet act 1, sc. 5, l. 93-110


	4. Epilogue Elysium, part 1

Elysium – Part the First

_"Greater glory in the Sun, An evening chill upon the air…"_

Severus let the gentle, hoarse voice of Remus Lupin roll over him, paying little attention to the empty words. He recalled that feeling of timelessness, that desperate desire to enfold the boy in his arms, to never ever let the moment end, to never let him go, to hold onto that feeling. The knowledge that he _could_ feel had been vaguely terrifying... 

That one moment, which would have been perfect if not for the oh so many things which were oh so wrong, which made everything impossible… and the crushing, ever-present despair, like a fist clenched in his chest, which made him press his eyes shut all the tighter and wind his fingers in that black hair… 

And afterwards, in those few moments alone on the floor, briefly crumbling and broken in the boy's explosive wake, the strands of black wound in his fingers, clutched around white knuckles… He had, for one fleeting moment, almost – _almost_ – grasped paradise. 

And that is why, Albus, I have to leave. I'll tell you that it's because you've no more use for me now, I'll say that I can't face another year of teaching… I'll consider going without letting you know, leaving you only a brief, scathing note of exoneration – _Don't worry, Albus, no one would ever dream of blaming you – _but I realise that you'd eventually find me. So I'll take my leave of you and this accursed castle and I'll be gone before I'm tempted… Before I start aching for something I have no right to want.

From behind a curtain of sable hair, Severus gazed detachedly at the faces of those around him. Eight scarlet-haired heads and one darker head bowed, and two Muggles accepted into the fold, united in anguish and loss. He stood back from the stooped, heavy shoulders and the twisted misery of grieving faces, lurking in the background, noticed by few, acknowledged by fewer. Slowly, silently, he began to drift away, wrapping his robes around himself, trying to become invisible, part of the all-consuming shadows which spread from the base of trees and the feet of gravestones. 

And then red-rimmed, dry eyes flicked upwards from beneath the too-long black hair of the man on the opposite side of the chasm opened between them. Focused on Severus, and Severus alone, a questioning, quiet concentration settled across the other man's face. For a lengthening moment, Severus held that intensely calm, silently furious stare… then turned on his heel and walked away. 

Behind him, Harry's gaze remained fixed on the patch of darkness into which Severus had faded, until a small, cold hand grasped his. Closing his eyes, he let the pale, tear-stained face next to him bury itself in his robes and tried to ignore the ache in his chest. 

_"Bid imagination run/Much on the Great Questioner;" _

Long red hair so _female_ under his fingers, the soft sounds of desolate grief echoing around him… He turned his face away and let himself stare down into the intense darkness before him. Two souls descending, the past and present laid to rest, and the future disappearing along with those black, burning eyes. 

~~~~~

If it was a weathered, aging strategist, chess-player in the fates of worlds, who had called for Severus to enter his office, it was with a heavy heart that he watched him leave. Albus Dumbledore, a bespectacled Marcus Aurelius ensconced behind his desk, had looked so frail in the moment that Severus had spoken. A sudden reminder of his age, his face had sagged, grief etched deep and disguised as wrinkles. And Severus had abandoned the bitter anger he had carried for so long and shaped into vicious stones which, until that awful change, he had been prepared to hurl at the old man opposite him. 

_I'm sorry, Severus_, a final parting shot. 

No, Albus, I won't give you my forgiveness. It isn't mine you want.      

And now, as he sat at the desk in his own rooms, one last time, Severus picked up his quill and began to write. The vial before him glowed darkly and the hand with which he gripped the quill shook as he tried to think up words with which to express the ache and anger and _I'm sorry._

Finally, dipping the nib into the pot of ink, he scrawled a single sentence. He folded the slip of parchment and placed the vial on top of it, leaving them both in the centre of the desk. A single word shrunk the pot and quill and he placed them in the trunk which stood open by the desk. Closing it and casting a last look around the dungeon rooms which had for so long been his, Severus' ragged voice rose in a low hum, the words of a childhood song he thought he had forgotten… 

"_Come away, O human child! _

_To the waters and the wild _

_With a faery, hand in hand,_

_For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand…"  _

He strode to the desk, cursing himself for his weakness, for even entertaining the thought that he could have this simply because of some selfish desire… What right had he? What _right_ do you have, Severus, _what right_? Pulling the parchment from beneath the crystal vial, he closed his fist around it, crushing it in his trembling fingers. For a moment he hesitated, then opened his hand and let the crumpled ball fall to the floor. Levitated trunk hovering before him, he pulled the cloak around his shoulders and slammed the door. 

~~~~~

As Severus marched, almost determinedly, down to the edge of the school grounds, Harry was hurrying along the corridor from Dumbledore's office. The conversation between them on Harry's return from the afternoon's dark affair had been brief. 

_"You have to stop him! You can't let him go!" Harry had screamed in exasperation._

_Albus had regarded him passively and spoke as though he was discussing how many sugars Harry wanted in his tea, "Professor Snape has no wish to remain at Hogwarts unnecessarily. His duties with the Order have been fulfilled -"_

_"'His duties with the Order have been fulfilled'?" Harry repeated, gazing at Dumbledore with a look of growing horror, "He saved my life! He _destroyed_ Voldemort!"_

_"And he knows that we are grateful, Harry," – Harry flinched at the disgusting familiarity, felt dirty and angry – "I have done my best to dissuade him, but he is quite adamant."_

_Harry stared at Dumbledore with incredulity and disgust, too angry to halt the violent, hissed words which he hurled at the old man behind the desk before slamming the door behind him: " 'Done your best'? If you'd done your best he wouldn't be leaving."_

And now, walking down the dungeon corridor, he quickened his pace. He broke into a slow jog, then a run. He had to reach Severus, to argue with him, shout at him, plead with him. To push him against a wall and kiss him, prove to him that he couldn't leave, that Harry needed him.  

Not bothering to knock, Harry drew his wand and prepared to disarm any wards which might stop him from entering. Instead, a burst of powerful heat burst from the tip, as if by its own volition, and blew a hole in the door, which swung open to reveal a room empty except for a few rows of shelves and a well-worn desk and chair. 

Heart plummeting and gripped suddenly with leaden fingers, Harry stumbled forward and into the room. 

"Snape?" He called, rushing desperately to the connecting door and peering into the drawing room beyond. "Severus!"

He was greeted by a heavy, stony silence. Too late, Potter, too late. Oh God, too late. Harry sank into what, until minutes before, had been _Severus'_ chair. Resting his head in his hands, he was about to let his eyes slip closed when a glimmer of darkness flickered next to his elbow. Harry seized the vial and stared into its shimmering depths. He wasn't a fool, this had been left for _him_. 

In a second he was on his feet and charging back in the direction from which he had just fled. Barking the password at Dumbledore's guard-gargoyle, he jumped the stairs and crashed through the office door. 

"Where is it?" he demanded. 

Dumbledore raised his gaze from the papers he had been perusing, and had the decency to look vaguely surprised. "Harry! Would you -"

"Where's the chart?"

"Chart, Harry? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."  

"Don't lie to me, stop fucking lying to me!" Harry pushed the chair before him aside and strode over to the handsome wooden cabinets which stood against the walls of Dumbledore's office. 

"Harry, please calm down. I know you are upset, but -"

Harry wasn't listening. He flung open the cabinets, one by one, searching through their contents then moving on to the next. Finally, he turned and faced Dumbledore, his face terrible and twisted with rage and wet with angry tears. "Where is it?" He demanded. "I know you know what I'm talking about, I've seen it!"

"Harry, please…" Dumbledore sighed, suddenly resigned, suddenly no longer able to fight. 

"_Where is it_?" 

For a few tense seconds, Dumbledore held Harry's burning gaze, the seconds stretching to encompass minutes, hours, years… And then he simply sank into his chair. With a small, somehow fragile gesture, he passed his hand over the surface of his desk, and a scroll of parchment appeared, spread over the wood, glistening with strange, metallic ink. 

Harry fell upon the map, searching furiously for the name he sought, the destination he needed. 

"He will not return to Hogwarts," Dumbledore said gravely.

"I'm not going to ask him to," Harry replied. There, in northern England. One glittering silver dot – Snape Manor. Pausing slightly and passing one finger over its location, fingertip barely brushing the warm parchment, Harry turned away from Dumbledore and strode to the door. 

"If I have hurt you, Harry… I have only ever tried to protect you…" Dumbledore's voice did not waver, but there was a terrible weakness which Harry could feel emanating from the tired old man being the desk, even as he pulled open the door and left, allowing it to slam closed behind him.   

~~~~~__

_The scene is set, the players jolly. And here, see him approach._

Severus entered the church through the main doors, which were now thrown open, their ancient wood creaking as a few prematurely orange leaves danced red and gold over the threshold. This antique building which lay hidden amongst trees; beech, oak, chestnut; basked in the warm Indian summer weather which, it seemed, became milder and more seasonally appropriate the further one was from Hogwarts. Once the ancestral chapel of the Snape family, eschewers of the New Faith of Queen Bess and her half-brother, it had now stood unused and decaying for well over a century, suffering only the occasional visit from a strange, silent, black-haired boy some thirty years previously.  

Out of long-repressed childhood habit, Severus dipped and crossed himself before the lone remaining image of the Virgin, and sank onto one of the wooden benches which were still upright, despite being riddled with woodworm.

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned." Severus' voice rang cold and empty in the silence.

He raised his head and gazed at the faded eyes, which looked down upon him, flat and blank and _real_. 

"God, how I have sinned." Fading saints gazed on, silent and crumbling. For a long moment, Severus let the heavy quiet settle. 

Is this what it is to be blind? This eternal, boundless darkness, infinite in possibility. I want to escape, but how can I break free of this, something of which I cannot perceive the boundary? There is no wall for me to scale, no window that I could break… Just this deepening, widening darkness. And though I know there are colours, shapes before me, I cannot reach outside and pull them in. There will always be a little further… none more black, none more black than in here, more black than this inescapable room of rooms in which I sit and am destined to sit until my body fails and my soul is finally free.

The grand futility is unending and cruel in its sympathy. You show me the dead yet I am not living, you bring me the dying yet I cannot heal. Expect no miracles from me, for glory has forsaken this house.    

And when he spoke, his voice was somehow changed.

"I have of late – but wherefore I know not – lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of exercise; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory. This most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire –" 

He noticed not a cloaked figure which had appeared silently at the door and now stood still, as though frozen, perhaps entranced by the terrible beauty of the man's soliloquy, "- why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god – the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!"

Sinking his head into his hands, Severus' voice became somehow softer yet more harsh, acquiring a hoarse rasp which filled the icon-less alcoves and the shallow, occupied porch, "And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me – no, nor woman neither. Nor woman neither…"

For a moment there was silence, then a heavy footfall as the figure threw off its cloak and entered the chapel, speaking softly and intently, "Careful, Severus, it's my dreams you're treading on…"

~~~~~~

Notes : _Greater glory in the sun…_ – 'At Algeciras – A Meditation upon Death' by W.B. Yeats

_Come away, O human child! _– 'The Stolen Child' by W.B. Yeats

_I have of late – but wherefore I know not – lost all my mirth_ – 'Hamlet' by William Shakespeare, act 2 sc. 2, l. 296-310

_Careful, Severus, it's my dreams you're treading on…_ - Wilful misquote from 'He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven' by W.B. Yeats


	5. Epilogue Elysium, part 2

Notes: This story seems to have grown since I first imagined it sometime last year. A one-shot rapidly changed into three chapters, then four, and then five. But here it is, at last, the end. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And a big thank you to all my lovely reviewers, because feedback makes it all worthwhile… to people like shallow ole me, anyhow ;-) 

This chapter, and especially the use of 'The Stolen Child' by W.B.Yeats, is dedicated to Sara, whose fantabulous review inspired me to get my arse in gear and finish the story.

Elysium - Part the Second  

"Careful, Severus. It's my dreams you're treading on."

Severus said nothing. He was hallucinating; lack of sleep and that rebellious bit of desperate hope conspiring against him in a terrible – _God let him be here – _cruel trick.

Harry continued to walk down the aisle towards Severus, silently stepping over broken tiles and decaying wood. He stopped and sank onto the pew behind, perched precariously on the rotting timber, so close. Severus felt breath on the back of his neck, and smelt for one moment that smell of warmth and summer and youth that clung to Harry and which had plagued Severus' thoughts and dreams for days. 

"I'm here," Harry said softly.

Severus opened his eyes, "Why?" He hated himself for the simplicity of the question, and for the weakness in his voice as he asked it.

There was silence as Harry considered his answer. When he replied, his voice was soft and inwardly bitter, "I'm too selfish to let you go."

"I won't go back to Hogwarts."

"I'm not -"

" – so if Dumbledore's sent you, you can tell him -"

"Dumbledore? You think I'd come all this way for Dumbledore?" Harry gave a hollow laugh. "I'm not asking you to go back to Hogwarts, that's not what I came for."

"Then why did you come here?" Severus asked, turning to face Harry with weary eyes. "What do you want?"

For a moment Harry was taken aback by the tiredness in Severus' face, and dropped his gaze to avoid it. He spoke quietly, "I want to know why you made me leave, after..."

Severus turned away again, "Because you are my student, and I -"

"I'm _not_ your student anymore! And if that's what matters so much, why didn't you stop me before, when I backed you up against your desk and gave you a blow job? What are you afraid of?"

_That I might not be able to say no._"I am not -"

"Please," Harry's voice was strained, "Please, just don't say no, not now..."

Arms reached to touch Severus, and he leaned into the embrace. Warm breath on his neck, followed by warm lips, pressing a kiss to his cheek, to the nape of his neck… How much he wanted to turn round and taste… He opened his eyes and tore himself away. Those fading saints were accusatory now, _why so weak, Severus? Why so weak?_

He stood abruptly and turned to face Harry, immediately wishing he hadn't, so that he wouldn't have to face the awful confusion in the younger man's eyes. "Why are you here?" he demanded, "Have you come to torment me? I made you leave because I couldn't stand to be near you, because it's disgusting, because God, I disgust _myself_…"

"But why? Why won't you let me -" Harry reached out for Severus, but the older man pushed him away. He sighed, and silently implored Severus to let him say what he was about to without interrupting, "Listen to me, please. Listen to me. You're scared of me" – Severus shook his head, about to deny it – "you're scared of me because I make you want me. You don't want to lose control. I terrify you because you think that if you do, you'll break me. You think you don't deserve this, me, whatever. But you do, and don't worry, I know that you're fucked up, and that scares me a bit, but so am I. So, you see, it doesn't matter what you say, because for some twisted reason I understand you, and you understand me better than anyone,  so please don't deny me that." Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, "I want you so much it _hurts_. I'd fucking worship you, if you'd just let me…"

Severus gazed at Harry and slowly felt his heart being ripped out, "No." Why could the boy not have left him alone? Why must he force Severus to push him away so hurtfully? "You are wrong." _Lies._" I don't want you." _Lies._"And if you think that prostrating yourself in this disgusting manner will make me do anything other than despise you, you are also deluded. Did you think that -" Severus was silenced by the hand Harry placed over his mouth.

"Please, stop it. I know you think it'll make me go away, but I know you're lying."

Severus sank down onto the wood again and looked up at Harry, "You come so close to understanding me completely," he said. "But I understand _you_ too well."

"What do you mean?"

"This is not for you," Severus replied. "You belong in a world full of Weasleys, where you go to work with Arthur and Lupin, and Molly knits you jumpers at Christmas. What you want more than anything -"

" – is you."

Severus shook his head, "No. What you want is a family." He tried not to watch the awful realisation in Harry's eyes, "You want to stand like you did this morning, as somebody's son, somebody's brother…"

"But I still don't understand why -"

"You cannot have both. Would Molly and Arthur understand why you came here?" Severus dropped his gaze, "Once you cross the line between their world and mine, there will always be something that makes you different, something that keeps you on the outside. I _know_. And I know that if it came to a choice, which, you see, it has… it would never be me."

Harry was silent, and sat down heavily opposite Severus, ignoring the protesting groans of the decaying wood. He sank his head into his hands and Severus felt the inevitability of what was to come. He knew what Harry must have seen when he looked into that mirror at the age of eleven, and knew that if he looked again now, he would see exactly the same thing. Blood, after all, is thicker than most things.

Harry had lifted his head, and was gazing blankly at the face of the Virgin. Whatever answer he found there would, Severus knew, never be entirely satisfactory. He had had years of practice and had figured that out long ago. 

And then Harry turned to Severus, and there were tears in his eyes, traitorously threatening to spill down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Severus, I can't…"

Severus nodded. He had known, but it didn't make it any easier to hear. And when Harry dropped to the floor on his knees in front of Severus, it was so hard not to reach out… Then the boy looked up at Severus with raw, aching need and grief and pain, and kissed him. Severus closed his eyes gratefully and parted his lips to let Harry's tongue find his. It was brutal and fierce and so horribly tender and Severus could taste the tears which flowed freely down Harry's face, and Harry's hand was at the back of his head, pulling him down closer, tangled in his hair. Severus was trapped against the pew, not that he was protesting, and Harry's kiss grew fevered, frantic, full of desperation. Severus wrapped one arm round Harry's waist and pulled him up from the floor without breaking contact, and Harry was suddenly above Severus, one knee on either side of him, grinding himself against the older man, making them gasp.  Severus held on tighter and Harry was clinging to him desperately, tongues pushing against each other, trying to consume each other's lust, but eventually the boy had to pull away and when he did his lips were bruised, and his eyes were wet, and dark with desire. 

"I'm sorry," Harry gasped, and fled, his footsteps echoing behind him in the suddenly cold emptiness of the chapel.  

Severus leaned back against the back of his seat and gazed upon the face of the Virgin as Harry had. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the high, sweet, cold voice of the sister he had loved so much laughed at him.

_My poor, lonely Severus… Don't cry now, baby, if it's for the best… You always were afraid of the kill, little brother, so afraid that next time it'd be you…_

The saints remained silent, and after what had felt like hours he gave up waiting for them to reproach him, for he was sure that they could read his mind. 

He fumbled in his pocket to find what he needed, and eventually his fingers closed around what he was looking for; that tiny, glittering vial of darkness.

…..

And five minutes later as he stumbles past the rotten door and emerges into the autumn sunlight, he can here the saints' voices, singing him to sleep… or is it her? Mocking him again for his stupidity as he is suddenly caught in a strong embrace, and surrounded by the smell of summer, and a tearful voice murmurs in his ear:

"I couldn't leave, I want you more than anything else…"

He closes his eyes and feels the arms tighten around him, and a small, empty crystal vial falls from his fingers, spinning slowly and glinting in all the colours of the rainbow before it hits the ground and shatters.

_Come away, O human child!_

_To the waters and the wild_

_With a faery, hand in hand,_

_For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand._

~~~~~


End file.
